Take Me Out To The Ball Game! Restaurant Critic Robert Tolf Checks Out The Fast Cuisine At South Florida`s Ball Parks.

March 21, 1987|By ROBERT TOLF, Special to the Sun-Sentinel

I first heard the story a year ago -- one of the reasons George Steinbrenner wants to move his New York Yankees spring training sessions elsewhere is because the food at Fort Lauderdale Stadium is terrible.

How bad is it, George?

Well, I found out. Fort Lauderdale Stadium is clearly the cellar dweller where the palate is concerned. Municipal Stadium in West Palm Beach, on the other hand, tops my box score, with more best votes than any other stadium. Bobby Maduro Miami Stadium trails slightly behind West Palm, but gets my votes for best hot dog and hamburger.

In three days I saw baseball games in West Palm Beach, Fort Lauderdale and Miami, discovering for myself the fun, relaxing nature of spring training and the easy accessibility of the players. Not to mention the hazards of taking Table Talk into the great outdoors . . .

MAKE MINE CACTUS

As a lifelong Cub fan (Yes, yes. Maybe this year!), I would have preferred the Cactus League to the Grapefruit League. But Mesa, Ariz., is not really in our back yard, so I had to be content with the alien forces of New York, Montreal and Atlanta (both the Expos and Braves train in West Palm Beach) and Baltimore.

When I got this plum assignment, I thought about cheating a bit, showboating with a bring-my-own pate and jellied eggs picnic basket, but was glad I resisted -- doubly glad when I saw the large red letters at the entrance to West Palm Beach`s Municipal Stadium: ``Patron`s Food and Beverages Prohibited.``

Not to worry, said I, as I bought my ticket, thinking that the price of admission would have financed four friends for a Wrigley Field outing to watch ``Jolly Cholly`` Grimm, Phil Cavaretta, Andy Pafko, Bill Nicholson and the Mad Russian -- Lou Novikoff. Not to worry. I had been told that the Montreal Expos brought their own organist with them.

Wonderful! With memories of marvelous Montreal restaurants dancing in my head and visions of braised kidney and sweetbreads Forestiere, I entered the gate with great anticipation.

I struck out as soon as I heard the first strains of the Canadian national anthem. The organist had nothing to do with my lunch -- except to provide background music while I was seated in the best setting of any of the three stadiums, a courtyardlike place where chairs and tables are grouped in the shade.

I couldn`t find a waitress or a maitre d`hotel, but I was told by a cheerful sort in the Pepsi wagon close by that he had sold nine cases of Labatt beer before the end of the first inning. The Good Humors were going just as fast.

Miller Lite and Budweiser were on tap elsewhere on the grounds, away from the Labatt courtyard. I also was surprised to find another Canadian brew, Molson, available in Fort Lauderdale Stadium, along with Coors and Beck`s.

German beer accompanying our national pastime? Sure. Seems to be the trend. They even sell Heineken in Miami stadium. But I opted for Coors.

MIAMI`S GREAT HOT DOG

The objects of my attention in Miami Stadium -- which resembles a major league baseball field more than the other two -- was a hamburger and an absurdly long hot dog quite properly called The Colossal. Strictly a two- hander, it is advertised as being ``All Beef,`` and it was good. The burger, though a tad greasy and certainly not undercooked, was better than the McWendy King product.

I find hot dogs infinitely more interesting. And after all, what`s a baseball game without a hot dog? They`re as American as Beck`s or Heineken beer, croissants and Cuban sandwiches.

And what`s a hot dog without that yellow, good-for-nothing-else mustard? It`s as essential for me as mayo with bologna.

And, of course, a hot dog must be served on a lighter-than-air roll, one with absolutely no substance to it. The roll I received at Fort Lauderdale Stadium was perfect looking -- too perfect looking. With nary a wrinkle, it looked as if it had been produced by a robot. The spicy frank that came inside the bun fell into the same category, I`m afraid. The bun and weiner looked like plastic. But I knew it once had been alive -- or rather, that it was really a hot dog. The shiny foil pocket told me so, many times over in a Warholian repetition of odd colors -- Hot Dog Hot Dog Hot Dog.

I was almost convinced as I lifted the lid of the steaming container of brown-orange glop, a Cheese Whiz kind of paste that I was smilingly informed was for the nachos. They were in a neighboring bin.

Really! I was beginning to think the Yankees had lost the war.

Or that Beck`s beer had some kind of German tie-in deal when I saw the pretzel cart dispensing heated giant twists of carbohydrates.

There also were nachos and glue and the same kind of pretzels in West Palm and all three parks were doing a lively business in popcorn. But there I stopped short -- after all, if Orville Redenbacher or George Plimpton is there to do the popping, I`d be tempted. But without them, why bother?